


Home

by LauranicusPond



Series: Pretty, Petty Thieves [7]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: And Lots of It, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11989713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauranicusPond/pseuds/LauranicusPond
Summary: Home changes, home stays the same.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this kicking around in my drafts for ages and finally got the motivation to finish it. 
> 
> I wanted to try writing something different, and this was the result

They sit together, watching the waves. The rain patters down against the thin fabric of their tent. Smith has his hand on top of Trott’s, their fingers laced. Smith’s knuckles are bruised. His thumb moves gently back and forth over Trott’s skin. The evening grows darker, and turns into night. Still, they sit. Trott watches the ocean recede away from them down the pebbles.

 

* * *

 

 

Trott stands, squinting against the sun, and stares out at the horizon. The sea moves gently over his bare feet, the pull of the water shifting tiny stones out from under his toes with each wave. Behind him, somewhere, he can hear Smith and Ross talking to each other. Miles ahead of him, the horizon shimmers. Trott takes a deep breath and turns, heading back up the beach.

 

* * *

 

Trott floats, looking up at the surface of the water. It’s storming, and he likes to watch the clouds light up. He knows he should be studying, or practicing, or helping his mother. But he floats, and lets the waves rock him from side to side, and watches for the lightning.

 

* * *

 

Trott’s drowning. His skin is soaked through and shredded and heavy, and it’s pulling him down. He reaches desperately, trying to pull himself up to the surface, but the waves toss him this way and that and he loses track of which way is up. His chest aches with the need to breathe, heart thumping in this useless, helpless, human form. He wakes with a gasp, shirt wet with sweat.

 

* * *

 

Trott shifts before he gets into too shallow water, and swims the rest of the way until he can stand. He wades out, skin draped around his shoulders. The beach and the ocean alike are calm and quiet. Trott looks out over the almost still water, a rippling black mirror reflecting the full moon above it. He feels like he should say something. Goodbye, perhaps.

 

* * *

 

Smith gallops across the moor, snow flying up around his hooves. The night is quiet. He slows to a canter to listen to the snow crunching, and then stops at the edge of his frozen river. The ice cracks under his weight, splintering apart to let him sink to the water.

 

* * *

 

Smith pulls Trott, whooping and laughing, through the undergrowth of the forest. He has Trott’s hand tight in his and it's the happiest he’s felt in years. They stumble to a halt at the river bank. They kiss. Smith puts his arms around Trott and sways with him, a gentle waltz to the tune of his river.

 

* * *

 

Smith dunks his head under the water and comes up grinning, sweeping his hand through his hair to push it back off his forehead. He’s red-headed today, and tall, and the pretty girl on the bank seems to like it. He beckons to her, letting his charm curl out around her. He almost thinks he can see it sometimes, twisting like mist around her ankles as she stands and makes her way toward the water.

 

* * *

 

Smith smokes a roll up and watches the sky. The beams from the search-lights criss-cross over the clouds. The city smells of burning. He wants to leave, to get back out to the country where there are pretty girls and rivers and less fucking bombs falling from the sky. But Trott’s out there, somewhere, charming his way through a deal, and so Smith just lights another cig and settles himself to wait.

 

* * *

 

Smith’s hair, long and dark, whips around her face and out behind her as she drives. They have the top down, and the night air is cool on her skin. Trott’s hand rests on Smith’s thigh. Ross is stretched out on the back seat. Smith looks out at the empty motorway ahead of them and puts her foot down.

 

* * *

 

The gargoyle perches on the roof of the church, watching the people of the parish mill around outside. They talk to each other, catch up with events of the week. He likes to imagine their stories. Hears enough when people linger in the church to know roughly who is who and what’s been going on. He watches a young woman bounce a crying baby in her arms. The gargoyle knows, instinctively, that the baby is sick. He watches the woman leave with the baby held to her chest, and offers up a prayer he hopes will be answered.

 

* * *

 

Ross hides himself in the shadows when the surveyors come. The church has been empty for years. They study the walls, the broken windows. Look up at the hole in the roof and shake their heads. One of them presses the keys on the organ and laughs when the other one startles at the noise. Ross rankles, clenching his fists.

 

* * *

 

They told him he was to be a guardian. A protector. A ward against evil spirits entering the church. He was created with holy magic, and the strength of that, and of the Lord, would aid him. Later, the church changed, and his non-living brothers were used as examples of the evil he was meant to be protecting against. Later still, the church emptied, and he wondered what he did wrong.

 

* * *

 

Ross watches the hoardings go up around the church from the roof. He watches people in neon-yellow jackets loop chains through the gates and padlock them. He watches them walk away before climbing down into the church, and out of the broken window. The hoardings are taller than he is. He pushes at one curiously and draws back when it wobbles. Ross doesn’t want to be discovered, but he feels better knowing he isn’t trapped by anything too secure.

 

* * *

 

Ross gazes out over the view of the sunrise from their living room window. He can see his steeple, just visible among the cranes building an ever taller skyline. He wonders what it looks like inside, if the soot has gone, if the pews are burnt away. Ross closes his eyes as Smith plasters himself against his back, sliding his arms around his middle. Ross rubs his cheek against Smith’s stubble, and lets him draw him away from the window and back to their bed.

 


End file.
